


A Hard Day's Night

by Ten8cinator



Series: Pale Black [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Intoxication, M/M, She's only mentioned though - Freeform, Swearing, drunk gay men kiss and it's gross, not a songfic, what is this fanfiction.net get with the program
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5423054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ten8cinator/pseuds/Ten8cinator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slick and Sn0wman have hit a rough patch in their relationship, and as any good moirail knows, the best way to solve a problem is to talk it out.<br/>Or, you know, get your palemate shitfaced drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hard Day's Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series now!  
> The next one will be from Slick's point of view I promise.

           It’s abnormally quiet in the hideout when Droog enters. Given that it is roughly three in the morning, it makes perfect sense-- rather, it would, if Droog were the only one there. His previous intentions were to pick up a pack of cigarettes he’d left on the counter earlier that day, likely beside an untouched morning paper and a now lukewarm coffee mug; if it weren’t for such pressing matters as dealing with _“that goddamn good-for-nothin’ Sleuth”_ , he might’ve tidied up the place before being ushered out by an irate Slick. Said intentions have migrated to the back of his mind now- not forgotten, no, but the fact that the door was unlocked with his boss’s car parked haphazardly on the curb outside has indeed taken precedence over anything previously plaguing his thoughts.

           It’s never a good sign when Slick is in the building and the atmosphere is deathly still. Droog exercises appropriate caution when moving through the hideout; he doesn’t know exactly where Slick is, but by the dim light filtering into the hallway up ahead, he figures their meager excuse for a kitchen is a good place to start. Sure enough, as Droog rounds the corner Slick’s sitting on the floor, back turned to him, not quite sprawled as his knees are drawn up to his chest but decidedly relaxed. Unless he’s asleep, Slick’s undoubtedly heard the man come in, so there’s really no point in delaying their encounter any longer. Droog clears his throat softly, standing at the threshold; Slick shifts, but says nothing. His cue to move in.

           It appears that his leader has occupied that spot for some time now, and by Droog’s infallibly accurate speculation, Slick won’t be budged until morning. Trying to relocate him now would only result in Droog’s best suit receiving a deck of cards’ worth of damage.

           Even if said cards are scattered about the floor amidst the carnage of Slick’s apparent anger.

           He’s carved a few unpleasant words into the scarred floorboards beneath his feet, along with some unflattering depictions of Sn0wman being mutilated in a gory fashion. _Classy._ Most of them have her crudely replicated face slashed out; Droog observes that the cuts are deeper the further away they are from Slick’s current position. His most recent creation- the one that Slick seems to be staring at with an indecipherable expression that tightens as Droog pauses directly behind him- was either carved with a dull knife, or with the hollow, languid motions of a man whose rage was completely spent and felt nothing but a lingering ache as he defined her sharp features.

           “Inspired to take art classes now, are we?”

           “Fuck you.”

           The threat is devoid of all meaning. Coming from a man who can make heinous puns sound menacing, it’s an immediate red flag. Trepidation is replaced by disappointment as Droog’s frown deepens. The first words Slick’s spoken all night and they’re about as noteworthy as the oppressive silence that follows.

            _What the fuck happened tonight?_

           Droog’s face begs the question as he lowers himself to his leader’s level, and being a particularly hard person to read under normal circumstances, Slick knows that his right hand man won’t take any bullshit on his end. He glances at Droog, a sliver of his old personality creeping back into his countenance.

           “Rough night, tha’s all.” A pause; a sigh. “She’s just… She’s just being a bitch.” And it’s not said spitefully, in a manner that’s familiar to Droog as Slick’s way of keeping their mutual hatred alight. If anything, Slick sounds defeated. Put-out. And that’s not something Droog knows how to deal with. He forces down the multitude of questions that arise, mostly because he doesn’t know how to work himself out of that trench once they’ve dug it sufficiently. Under any other circumstances, any other topic, he might’ve been prepared, like a good moirail should be. But this isn’t just something you can devote a half an hour’s worth of lecturing to.

            _The Queen, Jack? Really?_ Droog forgets how many times he’s revisited that thought with varying degrees of exasperation. There are times when he wants only to express that their relationship was a stupid fucking challenge to undertake-- but that’s not his call. Being pale with Slick was a stupid fucking challenge to undertake as well.

           So he does the only thing he knows will sate Slick until his next encounter with Sn0wman, where they can discuss their own issues privately. Droog calmly goes to the fridge, retrieves a case of beer, and unceremoniously places it between them.

~~~

           “Bahh--” Slick presses the rim of the can to his lips, as if to take a hearty swig, but Droog blinks and suddenly Slick’s leaned in awfully close to his face, enough to get a strong whiff of cheap alcohol every time he breathes. “Hhhhhhhhhell, I dunno why I ev’n care about her. She s’not ‘mportant.” He seems to contemplate something, and for the fraction of a second his expression is sad, before reverting back to a drunken smirk as he gives Droog a noncommittal shrug. “Women ‘r fuckin’ assholes. Make you go ‘nsane, Dr-Droog.”

           When Slick starts to get sentimental after the pleasant buzz sets in, Droog usually lets him talk for as long as his convoluted mind desires. Of course, Droog has also had a drink or two himself by that point- which he reflects upon dismally, already started finished the aforementioned second beer- so it makes it easier to stand the nonsensical blatherings of a mobster set on autopilot. It’s sort of like playing two truths and a lie wherein both players are inclined to say whatever pops into their heads, and neither are exactly sure which of the other’s statements is false. Also, they’re both horrendously intoxicated.

           “Guess tha’s why I fell for ‘er in the first place. Fucked with my mind.” Slick makes a gesture towards his cranium, and Droog nods dumbly. He can’t exactly attest to that- under normal circumstances, Slick would’ve killed him, and right now his brain is kind of fuzzy- but he knows that agreeing with everything the man says and looking mildly interested is a good idea. Putting Slick in a bad mood yields the same results no matter how much alcohol he’s consumed.

           It occurs to Droog that his leader’s been awfully quiet for these past few minutes of inward assessment; he turns towards him, and is greeted with a strange look of appraisal.

           “D’You think anythin’ I do is smart?”

           Droog says nothing. The remark doesn’t give rise to an incredulous chuckle, or an eyeroll, as there was a hint of honesty in the question not muddled by booze. It’s Slick who laughs rather, after a moment, eyes scrunched shut and cackling airily. His hand grabs for Droog’s shoulder when the action causes him to sway. “Rhetorical question, d-dumbass.” He hiccups. “Don’ answer all at once. Don’ need one.”

           Droog blinks, and Slick interprets that as a need for elaboration. “This? This wasn’t smart.” The corners of his lips pull back to reveal rows of needle-like teeth. _I remember that. We were teenagers, weren’t we?_ “Fuckin’ bit through my lip more times’n I can count.”

           “‘N this? Epitome ‘a intellig’nce!” Slick makes a broad sweeping motion with his arm, addressing the multiple carvings on the floor. The empty beer can flies from his grasp. “Think I wanna stare at ‘er fuckin’ face e’ery day?”

           And before Droog can wrap his head around what’s happening, there’s a pressure against his lips and the taste of cheaply brewed lager on his tongue. It’s quick, sloppy, and ends just as Droog presses forward to reciprocate.

           “That… That was pretty stupid too,” Slick slurs, and promptly passes out on Droog’s lap.


End file.
